Sonny Von Gogh?

So, remember the en plein aire event that I had told you about? Well again, this was a joint fundraising venture to raise funds for the purchase of Miss Lassie’s house by our fair isle’s grand cultural quartet.

The fundraising premise involved extending invites to all calibers of artists, to sit in various degrees of dress and / or undress, all with a view to paint, draw, mold or etch-a-sketch, their rendition of Miss Lassie’s house, after which, the artistic renditions would be donated to the National Gallery and subsequently auctioned. The funds would then be used for the ultimate purchase and restoration of the house.

This being a wonderful and noble cause, I dragged Sonny out of bed at 8:00 on a Saturday morning, for us to go and lend our artistry to this endeavor, and it is to my chagrin that I admit that Sonny’s work was actually quite palat-able, for I could actually see the house and all of its offerings in his work. It quite irritated me when the obnoxious little snot proceeded to brag and preen as to the nature of his so-called artistry, and laughed and jeered at my humble attempts. My art was just misunderstood, and was very abstract in nature.

That being said, today I have received an invitation to an Art Outreach Exhibit at the National Gallery, all with a view to see if Sonny’s work will be featured, and possibly sold, or sits in a moldy closet somewhere.

Just know, if his work is indeed featured and auctioned for a bag of money, call Social Services right away.

To hell wid puttin’ the chil’ through school. I goin’ lock him up into a dark, dank, dungen-esque room with a strict directive to “Paint, chil’! Paint!” Even if he has to sever an ear for the realization of his artistic expression, all with a view to support his ever loving Mudda, and maintain her in a manner to which she is unaccustomed.

I done know seh the chil’ will never be the sporting superstar, and so I am still searching for alternate methods by which he can support me in my octogenarian years. He is my grand retirement plan.

And on that optimistic note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.

Bend It Like Mommy

So, I am a failure as a mother. Yep. There are no redeeming qualities in my attempt to adequately fulfill this very important role, and I don’t know if I should call social services at this point and just concede. Mek them come and tek the chil’ from me now.

This morning, as Sonny was getting ready to go to camp, I was at the end of my rope. He did absolutely nothing that he was supposed to do, and made me shout, snap, snarl, and repeat myself continually, as his procrastination was making me late for work. Albeit, I am late for work every morning but on my own volition, and it frustrated me to no end that this young upstart was interfering with my morning schedule.

Then, horrors of horrors, after tossing a particularly acerbic reprimand in his general direction, accompanied by a particularly heinous threat, he stalked off, and my keen sense of hearing picked up the following muttered words “Old peoples’ home…so miserable…”.

Now, I have no idea what the intermittent phrases were and the rage and smoke coming out of my ears hindered all other audible measures. My gasp of outrage must have given him some clue as to the clear and present danger, for the obnoxious little twit turned around swiftly, with a look of panicked astonishment on his face, and took off.

I now recollect the entire episode in slow motion. As I moved, he disappeared in a cloud of panic. The expensive high heeled shoe somehow appeared in my hand, as he bent the corner, and I released after taking angered aim at his head. I then stood back in smug expectation and waited…and waited…and watched in stunned awe as my shoe hit the wall, and fell lifelessly to the floor. Nothing. My jaw dropped, and from then on, my entire day was shot. I almost keeled over on the floor in tears, as a dry wail built up within my throat, begging for release. Sonny’s smug little snicker at having escaped did not help matters any.

See, as a chil’, I can remember many an episode when mi mudda would launch a projectile at me, my bruddas or sisters, her aim and rage to such an extent that the projectiles would bend corners. We were slippery little buggers, yet, my brothers still bears scars on the back of their heads, and let’s not mention the time that one stopped smugly around the corner to gloat, and the shoe subsequently followed to chop him in his forehead. As a bratty younger sister, I still recall that episode in gleeful satisfaction.

As a mother, I have perfected the required parenting phrases:

“…Because I said so!”
“Don’t let me come up there!”
“Shut up you mouth and eat your food!”

Many of the above have been bawled to my chagrin, as subsequently I realized that I was turning into mi mudda, sans the menopause and gray hairs. At least, not yet.

And now, this essential rite of passage for the Caribbean mother…the proverbial “Bend It Like Mummy” and I have failed miserably. I am such a loser! How can my Sonny recount the episodes to his own kin about the times that his Mudda shoe bent the corner to lace him good and proper?

I mean, my grandparents and parents alike have all passed down these sagas that are legendary to their respective tribes, and now, I have nothing. The one grandchild in my family, and I have essentially killed a critical family skill. My son will have no bend-corner-pop-head stories to relay. And don’t tell me that I should try again. I am scarred.

And on that pathetic note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro.